Say My Name
by Stephaniesaurus
Summary: Everyone has a hobby, a guilty pleasure, a secret sin. Some drink, some knit, some read, but not Inspector Javert. His hobby is far more exclusive. Inspired by the amount of times Javert says his own name in the musical/movie. (Madeleine Era) Some undertones of slash.


Like everyone, Javert had at least one hobby. However, catching criminals was his job so he could not count that as his second leisure pursuit. Now, Javert only had one interest to take up his spare time.

He knew he indulged in this pastime far too often, but the inspector could not resist this, not like he could resist snuff or drink. Besides, it had been worked into his routine now, and Javert was a creature of habit. Every morning after breakfast he did it at least once. On the way to his post and on patrol he envisioned it in detail, but did not allow his thoughts to distract him from his work. He snuck in a quick session during his lunch break in a deserted and locked room (he was no voyeur). When he returned home, it helped him relax, the pleasure that rolled through him at those times enough to guarantee him a deep and restful sleep.

He even did it around Monsieur le Maire and revelled in the guilt-tinted joy he felt. His superior had only ever given him an odd look, and ignored or failed to notice the inspector's quick exits and nervous twitches, something Javert didn't understand – surely his one guilty pleasure was obvious? All the signs were there.

"Thank you Inspector, you are dismissed." The mayor went back to the papers on his desk, missing Javert's relieved expression.

"Thank you, Monsieur le Maire." Javert bowed and sped out the room, and if the man at the desk noticed the inspector's haste, he didn't acknowledge it.

Javert strode down the street towards his current accommodation, his unrelenting pace and frenzied eyes enough cause for the population of M-sur-M to avert their own eyes and hurry stiffly past the intimidating uniform. A gamin even ran to the other side of the street as Javert barrelled by.

"Monsieur L'Inspector, are you –"

"Not now, Dupont!" The roar sent the young officer scurrying back inside the tavern where he was safe from Javert's wrath.

Eventually, Javert reached his room, his desperate fingers fumbling for his key, jamming it in the key hole and slamming the door behind him when he finally got inside the privacy of his own room. He slouched against the door. Alone at last.

Javert stood with his back ramrod straight, the silence smothering him and ready to be ripped by his actions.

"Javert."

It rolled smoothly of his tongue accompanied by a wave of pleasure in his gut.

"Ja-avert. Javert. Jaaaaaaaaaaaveeeeeeeeert."

The vowels swirled around his mouth like a fine wine, smooth and spicy. The inspector's knees nearly buckled under the force of the sound. The syllables all flowed together, passionate and deep. A fine word. A fine name.

"I'm Javerrrrrrrrrrt. Do not forget my name!" He purred out, a sweat breaking out across his forehead. The pleasure was getting too much. The musical word flying through his ears was the sound of angels. No word would be able to have the same affect – no other word that had the perfect amount of vowels and consonants, none had the same flow and beauty to it, there would be none other with so much meaning.

That was why Javert said it as often as he did – it was an unavoidable habit, too tempting to pass up. He slipped it in at any point just to feel that burning tingle run down his spine. He made sure to tell other's his name, because although hearing another say his name would never produce the same passion in his gut, some idiot would always get it wrong, and the inspector would experience the joy at repeating the word again even if it was tainted by his necessary mask of disdain.

As Javert lay down to rest that night, exhausted and sated, he almost wished 24601 was there. Not because he wanted someone to share his pastime with, but because that one prisoner had always forgotten his name. 24601 would be the perfect candidate for Javert to practice his hobby on.

Outside Inspector Javert's door, a lone, white haired man stood with a spreading wetness on his trousers. As he snuck away into the night, no doubt to his own boudoir, he gasped out one word: "Valjean!"


End file.
